To Be Mad Is To Feel With

A Lot Of People Hate Heroes. I Was Criticized For Portraying People Who Are Brave, Honest, Loving, Intelligent. That Was Called Weak And Sentimental. People Who Dismiss All Real Emotion As Sentimentality Are Cowards. They’re Afraid To Commit Themselves, And So They Remain ‘cool’ For The Rest Of Their Lives, Until They’re Dead—then They’re Really Cool.

The Human Race Is Intoxicated With Narrow Victories, For Life Is A String Of Them Like Pearls That Hit The Floor When The Rope Breaks, And Roll Away In Perfection And Anarchy.

La Guerre, La Guerre, Everything La Guerre. That's How I Grew Up. So For Me, It's Real. It's Not Something In The Past.

Perhaps Passing Through The Gates Of Death Is Like Passing Quietly Through The Gate In A Pasture Fence. On The Other Side, You Keep Walking, Without The Need To Look Back. No Shock, No Drama, Just The Lifting Of A Plank Or Two In A Simple Wooden Gate In A Clearing. Neither Pain, Nor Floods Of Light, Nor Great Voices, But Just The Silent Crossing Of A Meadow.

The Horse Could Not Do Without Manhattan. It Drew Him Like A Magnet, Like A Vacuum, Like Oats, Or A Mare, Or An Open, Never-ending, Tree-lined Road.